Page 39 of Alien Attachment
I take a shaky breath, gathering courage. “That somewhere along the way, you stopped being unwanted cargo and became... mine.”
His breath catches, and through our bond I feel the explosion of joy my words create. “Yours?”
“Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to...” I hesitate, then push forward. “Mine to choose. If you want to be.”
11
Claimed and Claiming
Kaylee
Thesmilethattransformshis face is radiant, setting his bioluminescence flaring brighter than I’ve ever seen it. “I have been yours since the moment our bond formed,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I merely waited for you to realize it.”
He pulls me down beside him on the strange, glowing bed, and I go willingly, settling into the curve of his arm. The material beneath us responds to our combined presence, warming, softening, conforming to our bodies as if designed specifically for this moment.
“Show me,” I say, my voice low and certain. “Show me what this bond really means. What you can really do.”
His pupils dilate further, his tendrils rippling with waves of brighter light. Through our bond comes a surge of desire so powerful it leaves me gasping—not just physical want, but a soul-deep longing for connection, for touch, for belonging.
“Are you certain?” he asks, his voice rough with restraint. “Once we cross this threshold, there will be no pretending it’s merely circumstance that binds us.”
I silence him with another kiss, this one fiercer, more demanding. “I’m done pretending,” I breathe against his lips. “I want this. I want you.”
Something breaks loose in him then—a dam of restraint crumbling beneath the force of our shared desire. His tendrils move with purpose now, wrapping gently around my arms, my waist, supporting me as he shifts to make room for me on the living bed.
“Then let me worship you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something dark and promising. “Let me show you what devotion truly means.”
His exploration begins slowly, reverently. One tendril traces the line of my jaw while another follows the curve of my neck, each touch accompanied by gentle bioelectric pulses that makemy breath catch. It’s like being caressed by living lightning, each contact point sending waves of sensation through my nervous system.
“The bond lets me feel everything you experience,” he explains, his voice rough with barely contained need. “Every spike of pleasure, every racing heartbeat, every shiver of desire. I know exactly how my touch affects you.”
To demonstrate, he sends a stronger pulse through the tendril at my throat, and I arch against him with a gasp that echoes through the cavern. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—not just the physical stimulation, but the knowledge that he feels my response, that my pleasure feeds back to him through our connection.
“More,” I whisper, and he complies eagerly.
Another tendril joins the exploration, this one slipping beneath the collar of my shirt to trace the hollow of my throat. The bioelectric pulse it sends through my skin makes me cry out, my hands fisting in his shirt as sensation cascades through me.
“Your pulse point,” he murmurs, fascinated. “So sensitive. And when I touch you here—” The tendril pulses again, stronger this time, and I nearly come apart in his arms. “—your heart rate spikes, your breathing changes, and through our bond I feel the heat building in your core.”
“Jhorn,” I gasp, but I’m not sure if it’s a plea or a warning.
“I want to map every sensitive spot on your body,” he continues, his voice dropping to a growl that I feel in my bones. “I want to learn exactly what touch makes you tremble, what pressure makes you beg, what rhythm drives you wild.”
His hands join his tendrils in their exploration, one cupping my breast through my shirt while another slides down to rest on my hip. Even through the fabric, his touch burns, and when he squeezes gently, I arch against him with abandon.
“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” he observes, and there’s something almost predatory in his tone that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Then do something about it,” I challenge, and his eyes flash with desire.
His tendrils make quick work of my clothing, their dexterity allowing them to unfasten buttons and zippers with remarkable efficiency. But rather than simply stripping me bare, they take their time, each piece of clothing removed with deliberate care, each newly exposed patch of skin immediately claimed by his touch.
When my shirt falls away, his breath catches. “Beautiful,” he whispers, one tendril tracing the curve of my breast while another circles my waist. “So perfectly made for my touch.”
The bioelectric pulses he sends through each contact point are carefully modulated—some quick and sharp like lightning strikes, others slow and rolling like waves. The combination is maddening, building sensation upon sensation until I’m trembling against him.
“Please,” I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking for.
“Please what?” he asks, his mouth near my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine. “Tell me what you need, Kaylee. Let me give it to you.”
